


Fit

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam feels everything about Bobby right down to his core.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fit

Sam’s ass-up, loose-muscled, hanging over the couch with two lubed fingers inside of him. There are stockings on his legs, long ones, fishnet and black, simple but perfect, except for the little tear they’ve already managed to get in them, and you can blame Bobby for that. Who leaves a stake just lying around?

Oh yeah. Hunters do. Sam shifts a little on the clean, scraggly-edged towel underneath him. He feels fucked-out. "I feel fucked-out," he announces, and yawns, hips hitching just slightly at the crook of Bobby’s fingers inside of him. He is Bobby’s to pet, after all. When they saved the star of a drag show and were offered some kind of reward, all Bobby had asked for, after watching Sam intently, who was eyeing the shoes and stockings that actually fit with envy, had been information on where they could get their hands on some stockings long enough for Sam’s legs.

"Well, yeah, that's cause I fucked you out," Bobby teases, voice full of so much naughtiness Sam grins to himself. He’s such a sexy influence on Bobby.

Sam slides back fractionally, presses back against the touch. "Do it again. And don't tell me you're too old."

"I'd never say that."

"You  _are_ old," Sam admits, propping himself up a little on his right arm, the left still dangling right off the couch. "But hot as hell. You get me going." _  
_

He can tell Bobby's flustered cause those fingers crook and try to go for distraction. "You sure got a mouth on you since Hell."

Sam started that. Sam started the "since Hell" talk. Sam's phone rings. He turns to look at his discarded jeans.

"I can pull out," Bobby offers with a wiggle of his fingers.

"Nuh-uh. Want those fingers in me even deeper," Sam says instead. He can barely bring himself to care about Samuel's call. Last time he'd checked in, Samuel and Sam's cousins had been resting at the cabin, so it's probably just a call briefing him about a new case anyway. He'd rather stay _de_ briefed _._

Plus? He isn't sure how to explain it, but he just doesn't  _care_ about them the way he cares about Bobby, though he does remind himself, often, that their status as family makes them important and means they  _should_ matter. He doesn't feel it, though. He  _does_ feel those sweet fingers. Bobby actually has really nice hands Sam's own can envelop and hold and pull to his lips and kiss if the mood strikes, and, somehow, it's been striking, more than usual. Maybe Hell does that too; he remembers Dean wanting to be "dehymenated". He clenches his ass around those fingers; done and done.

He does like Gwen, admittedly. But, still, he had no connection to her before he'd died. He only seems to have  _retained_ feelings toward things, not been able to create any, like antegrade amnesia for the heart.

"You're over-thinking," Bobby whispers, and Sam jerks slightly in surprise that it's right at his ear, that Bobby's over him again, lightly resting his weight on Sam. It's almost too perfect, like more than he deserves. _  
_

Sam shifts a little to get a good look at the face he knows. "Slide into me, then. And move those hips, yeah? Screw me so hard and deep all I'm thinking about is dripping onto your towel. Make me weak with buzzing blood, whimpering for you like I feel it in my core and can't live without it. Do it," he urges, eyes blazing with a need to be enveloped and accessed and _taught_.

Bobby hesitates for a moment. He's vaguely stunned, eyes blown wide and pretty. "O-okay," he says. Bobby is not typically a being very comfortable with sex, but Sam convinces him without ever trying. Bobby _likes_  sex with Sam. "C-can you?"

Sam extends that left arm, snags the box he tossed over there. "Here, baby," he murmurs, handing over protection like a good hunter.

The fingers leave Sam's pinked, slick hole for a little while, leave it wanting and afraid of emptiness, but it isn't long before he's full of Bobby again, full and moaning.

"I feel you everywhere," he blurts out. Everything he says nowadays feels like it's blurted out, like precum on a towel, and half of it doesn't make any sense, it's just trains of thought.

"I _am_ everywhere," comes the low-voiced response, gravelly with want. Sam nearly loses it, comes so close. He whimpers. He feels so vulnerable under Bobby, in a way few things make him vulnerable since Hell.

Bobby is everywhere. Sam doesn't have to worry about not caring when he's full of Bobby, doesn't have to worry about not focusing on certain things when Bobby's inside his core, against his back and Bobby's couch is against his front and those stockings actually fit.

When Bobby nips at his shoulder in an uncharacteristically forward display, Sam releases hot and quick, so hard he groans out at the beauty of there being less of him in him for Bobby to be able to fill up, metaphorically. Bobby pours into him, condom or not.

If he slept, he would be asleep. He doesn't, though. They know he doesn't. He lies boneless with his eyes closed and his head clear of thoughts. It's almost the same thing.

Bobby cleans them up and gives his back little kisses. He rests against Sam's back to fall asleep, snoring lightly and sweetly near Sam's ear. Sam's body follows the breathing pattern readily.

Sam isn't sure what he's feeling can be categorized as love, or even affection, since it feels a little selfish. But he feels it right down to his core, and, honestly, that's enough. 


End file.
